To the hospital, naturally. Haunted by the image of that frail bundle left behind for Monday-morning garbage pickup, I knew I had to see her in a different environment: safe and blanketed, warm and fed.

Mid-City Pediatric was about two miles east of where the infant had been discarded. It was a Medicaid hospital, meaning that most of the patients were poor. Despite its location, it had a world-renowned reputation. When my baby sister, Hannah, needed some minor surgery, Rina insisted that she be taken to Mid-City instead of one of the bigger, more moneyed behemoth hospitals on the affluent west side of town.

It was a five-story building, modern and functional. The interior made stabs at being bright and cheerful—a mural of painted balloons, a gigantic stuffed teddy bear holding an armful of candy canes—but it couldn’t rid itself of that antiseptic smell. One whiff and I knew where I was.

It was relatively quiet—the lateness of the hour and the luck of the draw. The uniformed guard at the door looked bored. There were about a dozen people milling around the lobby, mostly Hispanic mothers with small children. There was one Asian family— a mother and three little girls—sitting on orange plastic chairs, no one talking, hands folded in their laps.

I went up to a glass-partitioned counter. A middle-aged intake secretary smiled at me, her eyes enlarged behind magnifying corrective lenses. I pointed to the family. “Have they been helped?”

“The Parks?”

“I guess.”

“Yes, they’ve been helped. They’re waiting for the father to bring over the Medicaid card. He works alone in an all-night liquor store, so he had to lock it up before coming over here.”

“Is one of the kids sick?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking so many questions?”

I got out my billfold and showed her my badge. “Just wanted to make sure they were taken care of. Sometimes people are reticent to ask for help when they need it.”

“That’s true. What can I do for you, Officer?”

She was suspicious and I didn’t blame her.

“Two EMTs—Crumack and Hanover—brought in a newborn a little over two hours ago. I was the police officer who found her. I’d like to see her, if possible. Just to see that she’s safe.”

“Can I see that ID again?”

Again I pulled out the badge. Even after I showed it to her, she was leery. She told me to wait.

I waited.

Finally, a twenty-something pixie named Marnie Sears, R.N., M.N., took over. She asked me to follow her and smiled when she spoke to me. Perhaps she liked me because we both had flaming red hair. But that was where the similarity ended. She was small and slight and cute—everything that I wasn’t. What did I expect having been sired by a six-four, 220-pound-plus father. I had lost weight the past year—a lot of it, and not because I was dieting. The appetite suppressant came in the form of recurring nightmares of renegade cops chasing me off a cliff. My therapist kept telling me that it takes time for the psyche to knit the holes. I was still waiting, but I didn’t expect much.